


Karkat: cope badly.

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Blood, Desperation, Eyesocket Licking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This has nothing to do with quadrants. It has everything to do with being alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karkat: cope badly.

**Author's Note:**

> For a smutty ficlet bingo game; the prompt was "eyes."
> 
> ...yep.

This has nothing to do with quadrants. It has everything to do with being _alive_ , barely, being some of the last sorry bastards alive in the ruins of this universe, everything to do with the fact that poor pitiable Sollux is still warm after you were scared as fuck you'd lost him too and now you can't get close enough to him, crawling into his lap, burying your claws in the short fringe of his hair and wishing you could get a better grip.

"Kk," he's saying, face turned toward you, empty eye sockets reminding you _how fucking close he came_ , yellow streaks across his skinny cheekbones. "Kk, come on, stay calm," and it's fucking _weird_ to hear him without the lisp. You kiss his poor bloodied mouth, licking an apology where his teeth are gone. He holds on tight to you.

You had no idea mating fondness would feel so _awful_ : you feel terrible for him and it makes you a sloppy, disgusting mess of arousal, clinging to him, kicking your sneakers off, fumbling for the buttons of his pants. "Tell me this is okay," you whisper against his thin lips. Probably this shit is hardwired into trolls by now. The fear of death sparks your stupid breeding urge.

"This is okay," he tells you. One corner of his mouth twists up in something that hurts too much to be a smile. "Thiss issssss okay."

You sob, squirm out of your jeans, make something tear. Your seedflap is soaking wet, slicking the insides of your thighs telltale crimson. One of his favorite colors, and you'd never ever have told him, and now you can do this and he can't see what's wrong with you. "Here," you say, catching his bulge in one shaking hand, rocking yourself down on it. It hurts, in a way that makes your skin prickle tight with need all over, and he makes a sound like it hurts him, too.

You catch his head in your hands, the pads of your thumbs braced just under his horns, and you lean forward to lick him clean: licking the blood from his cheeks, lapping it from the hollows of his eyes. His claws dig into your hips, make you bleed. You're swallowing more miserable sobs along with the the unbearable sourness of his blood and you think he's sobbing, too, strangled sounds dying in his chest as he rocks up into you. It's horrible and you don't think either of you could stop and the flesh of his eye sockets is raw and brutalized, and every thrust of his bulge says, you're alive. You're alive.


End file.
